


Jackson Brodie, Dunderheid

by BlackQat



Category: Case Histories
Genre: "Jackson and the Women", Amanda Abbington role, Case Histories - Freeform, Don't be stupid, F/M, Jackson is exhausting, Jason Isaacs role, Love Actually - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-05
Updated: 2019-01-14
Packaged: 2019-06-05 12:11:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15170489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackQat/pseuds/BlackQat
Summary: After Louise Monroe walks out on Jackson Brodie, she has some thinking -- and swearing -- to do. A glaikit numpty, that's what he is.Takes place right after "Jackson and the Women"





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For the folks at #TeamBasement  
> Even though it may not smutty enough for some. You know who you are.

Louise Monroe strides out of the restaurant. She practically breaks into a run. Tears are running down her face and she wants to get to her car so she can rip the silence with swearing. At the driver’s side door she recalls Jackson’s face as he told her, “I just realised … I realised that I, uh … that I’m never gonna love you.”

“Even though when you look at me you want to kiss me,” Louise responded. She didn’t want to say, “Aye right, cunt” out loud in the restaurant, but she thought it. _I don’t believe you_. She doesn’t curse a lot, usually it’s in traffic jams, at horrible murder scenes, or when she hammers her thumb instead of a nail, but sometimes swears reel off in her mind when she’s angry. So angry, with Jackson. _Lying to protect someone, I’m sure…_.

She’s fumbling and hasn’t inserted the car door key in the right orientation. Damned finicky thing.

… He was all but hanging his head. Leaning across the table toward her. She could tell he wanted to reach out for her hand but didn’t dare, because what was in his eyes would come out from his mouth in words, and they would belie the ones he’d just said. His eyes were red with tears, not just weariness….

_Well maybe it was fatigue, he may be weary of dealing with himself._

The driver door shuts with a _thunk_. “Up yer erse wi’ this shite, Jackson!” she yells now. “I’m done with yer talkin’ pish!” She swears like her whisky-loving mother used to when she was smashed (which was frequently). She’s banging her hands on the wheel with every swear. “Ye cunt … dickheid!” Her palms began to hurt. “Take a runnin’ … _fuck_ … at a rollin’ donut, ye glaikit … dobber … _bassa!_ ” And hysterical laughter bubbles up, turns into sobbing, and her hands are scrabbling around in her glovebox for something to wipe the tears, snot, and melting eye shadow off her face. The mascara’s waterproof, but is flaking under her eyes, so it’s contributing to the “bandit mask.” A packet of handwipes, good to use after child murder scenes, which always make her weep, or after checking the oil in her car’s engine, which always makes her hands dirty.

Louise extracts one, recloses the packet, and dabs it around her eyes, then wipes her nose. And upper lip. Blowing her nose, she sees movement in the rearview mirror.

Jackson emerges from the restaurant, stuffing his phone in his pocket, dashes to his Alfa, slips in and cranks the engine. He pulls out, tires squealing, and Louise is tempted to follow him, see why he’s in such a hurry. Her mind clicks to the memory of that actress – Julia – hugely pregnant, standing in the entryway of Jackson’s townhouse. _Good aul’ Jackson to the rescue. Git tae fuck, eejit._

And he is. He is an _idiot._ Talking all that pish, tears in his eyes, voice going huskier than usual, it would have been sexy if he wasn’t saying, “Things happen around me that you … can’t be a part of ….” All that _shite_.

Louise was a detective, forfucksake. A little insulted that he was lying to her like that. “What’s happened? What’s happened to you?” She gestured to his face.

He hesitated; his eyes shifted away from hers. Those blue, blue eyes in that sad, battered, guilty face. He just shook his head, murmuring “No ….”

_What’s changed?_

_I’m never gonna love you …._

Breathing deeply, dabbing at her eyes that refuse to stop tearing up, Louise sits ruminating. She doesn’t think that’s what he was hiding. Processing it now, Louise decides it’s better left alone. If Jackson did something he had good reason, and his good reasons sometimes include sacrificing himself to save others for a good cause, even though the cause might not be legal. He wouldn’t kill except in self-defence. _Best not to dig around officially yet. If something comes up – like a body – we’ll question him. If there’s evidence._ Jackson had been a very good (if headstrong) policeman, so he knew how to hide things.

Then again. _What’s that thing they’re always saying on those old “The X-Files” episodes … “plausible deniability”?_ Could she just tell him not to tell her anything, so she could maintain “plausible deniability”?

 _Och, stop, your heid’s fulla mince._ Funny how Gran comes back to mind.

She drives home, opens a bottle of red wine, turns on the television, and there … she shakes her head and scoffs as she pours. The bloody “X-Files.” She likes Fox Mulder and his sad eyes. And his ever-capable, rational, dependable, just-the-facts partner Scully, who keeps him from his worst impulses. _Oh forfucksake, you have better luck with yours than I do with mine, Scully_. She watches anyway; Mulder’s theories are proved right again and Scully sighs and puts up with him; it’s just like Jackson and herself, except Jackson, while intuitive like Mulder, isn’t always right. At least not by police standards, and like Mulder, his instincts do not equate to solid evidence.

Two generous glasses of cabernet, a third of the bottle left; she debates finishing it, but before she can pick it up to pour, she begins nodding drowsily, puts the glass on the table, and lies back, tucking a throw pillow under her head _…_.

Louise drifts into sleep, her special dress wrinkling, her fancy shoes kicked off on the floor, her makeup mostly wiped off. The pins in her hair and the spangles on her dress poke into her scalp and her skin, but she’s beyond noticing that.

.

Jackson looks out over Edinburgh. The morning mist is refreshing; he went through a lot yesterday, and drove all night. Julia literally delivered her baby right into his hands; afterward she all but kicked him out of her hospital room.

When the nurse asked “Would you like a bed? Is daddy going to spend the night?” Julia dismissed Jackson’s presence with, “He’s just a lovely friend who helped me with the baby.” As if he wasn’t the father. As if he hadn’t sung to the little one, held him in his arms, his heart opening as it had for Marlee.

He left with a “See ya” and briskly walked through the corridors and down to the carpark so no one could note his sad expression, the tears forming in his eyes.

And before that: “dinner,” which he and Louise never ordered. His stomach dropping as he lied to her, watching the confusion and hurt in her lovely face.

He drove all round Edinburgh after leaving Julia and the baby. Drove his customary pathways, past his favourite sites, nodding here and there. The square where he’d seen Julia after their months apart, pregnant, filming a police drama. The building where that poor girl was knifed to death, and her father came to work only to have his heart broken. Jackson’s office, where that man – and so many other people – had sought help the police could not give, but Jackson Brodie could.

Morning came and he arrived here, at his favorite overlook.

He’s come to love this place, its history, its hills, its architecture; most of all, he’s come to love Louise Monroe. _Come to love her_ , like it’s destiny, his purpose for ever traveling here in the first place.

He doesn’t want to screw up her career in the police. She’s made it farther than he did, she’s a detective Chief Inspector. _Can’t bollix that up. I owe her so much._ He’s pushed their friendship to the breaking point, especially when he used an old password to break into her computer records, seeking information on someone concerned in one of his cases.

He can’t ever tell her about what he did for his client Samira the night before last, dumping a _body_ for God’s sake. Rhys, bar owner, aspiring mobster – and Samira’s abuser – certainly did not deserve a funeral, but should his corpse be where it is now …?

Jackson touches his sore neck, the bruises, cuts and scrapes on his face. Recalls the awful sight of Samira’s friend bleeding out on the floor of her flat; Rhys had beaten her almost to death. A phone call to 999, and the paramedics saved her life.

_Maybe he did deserve an ignominious burial._

When Jackson arrived at the bar where Samira worked, Rhys was hitting her. Intervening, he fought with Rhys, but the big man had got Jackson on the floor and was strangling him … until Samira knifed him in the back. _She saved my life._

To preserve Samira’s freedom, he hid Rhys’s body. At one of many construction sites in Edinburgh, Jackson breached a wire fence, and – out of view of any surveillance cameras – dragged the corpse through and buried it where cement would soon be poured. The murder might be put down to the mob if the body was ever discovered. Although mobsters didn’t generally stab their victims.

.

Now, Jackson ponders leaving Edinburgh. It might be best. Get all the money his clients owe him, pay Deborah what she was owed before she quit (though he suspects, being that she kept his books, she paid herself _something_ ), and fuck back off to the North of England. Yorkshire – no; his heartbreak over his sister Niamh would be too easy to indulge if he were so close – Liverpool, Leeds, Manchester, maybe. Or France, he speaks some French. “Qu’est-ce qui vous prend, Jackson?” _What is the matter with you, Jackson._ Try some meaningless sex for a change: “J’me’appelle Jackson Brodie. Voulez-vous couche avec moi?”

 _What the fuck._ His mobile’s ringing. “Jackson Brodie. How can I help you?” He takes down some particulars on one of his business cards and tucks the card in his pocket next to the phone. _I can always call back and say I can’t take the case_ , he thinks, then:

_You daft arsehole. You know you’re staying._

He sighs, fetches out a cigarette and lights it, inhaling gratefully. Smokes, looking out over the city, its hills, the river. Edinburgh has him as surely as Louise does. He can’t bring himself to leave either of them.

.

Louise startles awake and looks around, remembering what happened when she sees the bottle of wine and the television still on. She turns it off, corks the wine and takes her glass into the kitchen, rinses, then fills it with water and takes some Paracetamol for the slight headache that’s starting above and behind her eyes. She never ate last night of course – _thanks loads for dinner, Jackson_ – and rummaging in the cupboard finds some McVittie’s digestive biscuits and eats three of them, standing at the kitchen bench, gulping water in between, chewing and getting them down her. Pre-dawn light is creeping through the window. She goes to the foyer and finds a pair of flat shoes that won’t look ridiculous; she won’t bother changing out of her dress. She means to knock up Jackson at home and tell him he’s not leaving her.

Louise drives to his house but sees no sign of the Alfa Romeo. She parks in the little court and decides to wait for Jackson. Her eyes are stinging, from tiny flakes of mascara and the need for more sleep; she’s too tired to drive back home. Exhausted, in fact. Big emotions leave her this way sometimes. She’s somewhat inured to the horrors she sees in her work. She’ll cry in private, then get on with the case, whatever it is. The really bad ones, she can talk over with colleagues: even though they sometimes hide their feelings with macabre jokes, their faces always speak volumes of shared grief about the evils that can befall the innocent.

But personal stuff, that’s harder. She can’t categorise it clearly as she can work. There are regrets over marrying Patrick, their falling away from each other, their subsequent, amicable, hasty divorce … and their little in-jokes and companionship, now over. All gone.

She’s alone again. As for Patrick, he’s so genial, he’ll have no trouble meeting someone new. He’s an easy man, not like Jackson, who tends to be melancholy … just as Louise does.

All of it’s been a nasty heavy ball in her gut for some time, and now Jackson’s added to it, with his dissembling and the love he refuses to requite because of some … _thing_ he can’t tell her. Louise doesn’t even care what it is now. She is so tired.

And that is the problem with Jackson. He can be _exhausting_. But she loves him, she knows this for certain now, after her marriage that held too little meaning, with amiable, generous Patrick, who did not in the least understand her. The sex was great fun, though.

She still doesn’t see Jackson’s car. Despite her worry, her eyes are drifting shut. She turns off the ignition, undoes her safety belt, leans the seat back. _He wears me out. Do I really want this?_

Slipping into sleep, she thinks, _Yes, yes I do. God help me I love you, ye bampot._

.

Jackson turns the car into the mews where he lives. He sees Louise’s car and almost puts the Alfa in reverse to drive away, then pauses. He doesn’t feel like driving any more. He’s driven all night long, thinking, thinking, and trying to bury his feelings. Louise deserves to be heard. But he doesn’t see her, just her car. She doesn’t have a key to his house. Maybe she went for a brisk walk, she does that sometimes, to think.

Did it last night, away from their table and straight out of the restaurant. _What a load of bollocks you gave her. She deserves better than you. You bloody stupid man._ He parks his car and walks slowly to the house, sighing.

He’s wearied himself with ambivalence for some years now. He’s tired of being diffident in his private life. Charlotte had really hurt him. Jackson has the money back now; thank God he wasn’t ensorcelled enough to marry her, but he fell pretty hard. _Ha. I was just another guy she could steal from_.

It still smarts when he thinks about it; he very nearly gave his heart, and …

And his ex-wife, taking Marlee off to _New Zealand_. At least his daughter is back now; still living with Josie, but he can see her on week-ends, thank God. He expels another breath and unlocks his door, stumbles to the couch, slides out of and drops his jacket on the floor, kicks off his shoes, lies down and falls asleep before he knows it.

.

Louise is surfacing from sleep. She hears a loud purr. An engine? The purr stops; there’s the sound of a car door closing. Jackson …? She sits up, nearly flops back, and moves the driver’s seat back upright. Gets her bearings. There it is, his nice black car. She peeks into the rearview mirror and gets out another handwipe. The alcohol in it slaps her skin awake, and the aloe softens the blow. She sees more little flakes of mascara, wipes them away, dabs her eyelids carefully, and tosses the “cloth” to the floor. She gets out her lipstick and carefully colors in the outline left over from last night; then she takes a deep breath and ventures out.

.

His dreams are uneasy. His only daughter, growing up without him, meeting some handsome young Kiwi at the beach, whose face is obscured by dream-fog …. _Marlee!_ She’s swimming into the ocean, too far; she’s in trouble in rough waters …. On the shore, Jackson is frantic, unable to see or help her. Louise is pulling at him, trying to get him to follow her into the water ….

“… Jackson. _Jackson_!” he hears her say, then realises, waking up, that he’s in his living room, he’s lying on his couch, his neck cramped in an uncomfortable position. And Louise is standing over him, saying, “You left your door unlocked. The fuck ye dain, eejit?”

He squeezes his gritty eyes shut, opens them, and she really is there. “Louise,” he mumbles, sitting up.

“Yes, it’s me. You look knackered, sorry I woke you. Were you up all night?”

Jackson nods, sleepy still, and yawning, he looks up at her. “I was thinking maybe I should leave Edinburgh ...”

Louise’s green eyes narrow and he sees they’re full of tears. “Don’t you _dare_.”

He reaches up, cups her cheek. “… I couldn’t bring myself to do it.” 

Bending to kiss his forehead, Louise says, “Good, because I would take leave from my job and track you down, ye dunderheid.” She sits next to him, puts her hands round the back of his neck, pulls him gently in, and meets his mouth with hers.

The kiss is long and deeply satisfying, and when they break off, studying each other’s faces, he starts to say something.

She puts a finger to his lips. “Shut it, Jackson. And take me to bed.”

He breaks into a smile, something rare, takes her hand, and leads her up the stairs.

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A "what if there were more stories after Season 2 of 'Case Histories' -- and what if they were romantic" story.
> 
> For Val and Deb

Louise Monroe surveys the damage from the night before. Squinting into the bathroom mirror, a bathroom once occupied by Jackson Brodie’s actress Julia Whatsit – who later wanted Louise’s advice on appearing authentic as a police detective – ha! – and subsequently by “Charlotte,” Jackson’s museum phony who tried to steal 60,000 pounds from him, she thinks, “You may be a wreck, but you’re definitely a step up for him.”

She has mascara circles under her eyes. Her eyes are a bit bloodshot. They didn’t drink much, together, but she did drink before coming here. Then spent most of the early morning awake, deliciously so.

He’s good in bed, just as she is. Not necessarily a mark of confidence, but sometimes one of desperate insecurity. _Fine match, then. I give us one month, max. Daft cunt._ She meets her own gaze in the mirror, shaking her head, finger-combing her hair.

Louise runs the water till it’s hot. She wants a shower, but will wait and take one at home. Jackson doesn’t use the same shampoo she does, and god knows what his would do to her hair. _What a pair we are._ Each divorced, with one child. Each nearing 30 years per career. Jackson on the shite list with Lothian and Borders Police, and now Louise may just join him there, because the old guard are still pissed off at Jackson’s righteous denouncement of the leadership before he left, or, more like, was got rid of. Not all that group are gone yet, but many were “allowed to retire” and gently ushered out.

She washes her face as well as possible … _if mascara is stubborn as hell to get off your skin, why does it come off of eyelashes so easily?_ … does a “sink bath,” cleaning the vitals, then pats herself dry with a towel (Clean! Good for a man who’s a singlet, credit to you, Jackson!) … and tiptoes out to the bedroom.

Jackson is lying under the sheet, but it’s down to his waist and tented over his knees. He’s looking up at her with a half-lidded and sensual gaze, a smile tucked into the right corner of his mouth. “Good day, Detective Chief Inspector,” he drawls in a mock Sean Connery voice.

She’s cranky. Disappointed in herself, in a way, for finally giving in to a longtime temptation. Cross because she hasn’t any clean pants and her mouth tastes awful. _This can go one of two ways. I fight with him and leave, or I try a different way._

She sits down on the edge of the bed. “Good afternoon, fake Sean Connery.” She can’t help but smile.

His eyes are so blue. Usually introspective or melancholy or ironic, right now they’re fixed on her with an openness of feeling that is very rare between them. It’s thin ice, but she skates a little way out, rests her hand on his warm chest, and bends to kiss him, ever so gently.

He groans happily, and her hand travels down. “I see you’re up.”

“Get in here,” he rumbles, opening the sheet. “Too cold for you to be prancing about in the altogether.”

She nestles into him. Warmth, strength, kindness. He is exasperating and exhausting but he is a good man, and not “so good she feels she’ll never measure up” -- as she felt with her recent husband, the unfailingly kind, wise, brilliant and charismatic doctor, Patrick. He was SO good, she was a crank in comparison, and was always putting a foot wrong, only to be forgiven again and again.

Maybe she and Jackson will get along just right. Maybe never hum along on six cylinders, but four will do.

They’ll do just fine.


End file.
